... that I no longer post here. If you know where to find me, baby, I'm still around. Just follow the moonlit barefoot dancing trail of kissed lips and the smell of rain & oak, down down down to me.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Friday, April 16, 2010
rain
Okay, are you ready? Let's try that again.
A quiet, steady rain was falling, the kind that’ll soak a man to the skin and send a chill straight into his bones before he ever notices. It’s always raining in this damn city.
I flicked my cigarette into the gutter as I stepped out into the street, raising the collar of my coat against the drizzle. No use trying to keep it lit out here. It bounced once off the wet pavement, scattering sparks, and then extinguished itself in the gutter. The only really warm light disappeared with it.
Buildings loomed up on either side, almost featureless in the rain. A few shiny black hulks of cars here and there, but no people. Wide yellowish halos surrounded each of the streetlights, pushing back the gloom all the more for the black clouds pouring rain down on them. The part of my brain that still noticed these things registered that it might have been pretty. The rain was so quiet, the only sound you heard was water dripping off eaves and pouring down drainpipes. It was surreal and I liked it that way. Helps a man think. In a city like this, we take what we can get.
And I had a lot of thinking to do. The phone had rung earlier this morning than I’d have liked. I was sleeping at the office again, or I’d have missed it. Times are tough all over. I answered it with a growl.
“You sound ugly, Mr. Ginn.” The man’s voice was smooth in contrast, and smooth anyway. I guessed he was in his fifties, maybe older.
“I look even better. Who’s this?”
“Grey. General Robert Grey.” I suddenly felt a little more awake. The Greys were one of those old families. Those old, wealthy families. I’d never met them, but I’d sure heard about their money. The knowledge coloured my reply.
“How can I help you, General Grey?”
“It’s my son, James.” I didn’t know a thing about him, except that he was pretty, and kept a prettier thing by his side. Man, I was behind. I told him so.
“Times are tough.” I appreciated that, coming from him. “My son was into some pretty mean stuff, Mr. Ginn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but if it’s a counsellor you’re looking for I’m not your man.”
“He doesn’t need counselling. He’s dead. Shot to death outside his home, two nights ago.” The smooth voice didn’t waver. Whatever his reason for calling, it wasn’t grief.
“Now that’s something I can work with. You want me to find out who.”
“That’s how these things go, isn’t it?” He wasn’t really asking. A fan of the genre, I guessed. It was, and I didn’t mind him knowing it. He told me he’d have his man drop the crime scene photos by my office later in the day. He was in a hurry, and didn’t know anything besides. He told me that he’d suspected his son had been into something shady. The family had money, but the General was old-fashioned and thought his son had better work for what he wanted. Unfortunately, it never seemed little Jim Grey did much work, at least of the honest kind. He said the last time he saw James the boy seemed troubled, looked over his shoulder more than the General thought appropriate. He said he suspected James’ widow—and he warned me about her. “He didn’t think she knew it, but James was thinking of leaving her. She’s fine, make no mistake. But she’s one of the those thinking broads, you know the type. You watch her.”
A dead man and a thinking broad. I didn’t know what to make of it.
The photos turned up early in the afternoon. I was just waking up for the second time and I missed Grey’s man. Marlowe wound around my feet as I brought the manila envelope upstairs. His blue-grey fur was nearly black with wet; he’d taken to sitting on the fire escape, even in the rain. I got the feeling he was keeping an eye on the streets for me.
I laid the photos out on the floor. In them, a youngish man was sprawled face-down on a square of wet pavement, his clothes visibly soaked with rain. His right hand was extended outward; he’d been reaching for something when the bullet hit, a few inches back from his left ear. The rain had done me a favour with the wound; washed clean of blood I could see that it’d been a small-calibre bullet, probably fired at close range. That bothered me. It was a clean shot to the head, and that smacked of professional work, but something about it didn’t sit right. More photos showed me that the body had been found just outside the door to a large, stately sort of brick-walled house, but there was no other evidence left after the rain. A cobbled path led away from the house to a garage, and beyond that, to a gate set in the high hedges that surrounded the yard. There wasn’t much else to see, and the little page of notes with the photos didn’t tell me much. The wife had phoned in the murder just after 10:30; he’d been dead for about half an hour. There wasn’t much else to see. It had stormed that night. Chances are the thunder had covered up the sound of a gunshot. Hell, it was likely James Grey hadn’t ever heard the gunman come up behind him. And the driving rain would’ve obscured the scene from anyone who might have been watching. Perfect night for a murder.
My head was starting to hurt. Nothing I’d seen or heard so far held anything for me, so I decided it was time to pay Grey’s widow a visit. I found the address easy enough, and it was only a short miserable drive through the rain away. I arrived in time for tea. There was an officer’s car on the street and I spoke to the man inside briefly. He knew my name. Once we got the pleasantries out of the way, he told me about the witness. Accommodating guy.
“Saw a woman in a dark coat leavin’ the yard around 10. A brunette, he said. Couldn’t be sure of much with all that rain. Not long after, Mrs. Grey returned home. He figures she came back to the house on foot, shot her husband, and then walked back to her car and drove home—y’know, to throw anyone off that might’a seen her. I’m s’posed to keep an eye.” I thanked him and continued on.
The house was even more impressive from the front: clearly expensive, but not showy. The hedges I’d seen in the photos wrapped all the way around to the front of the house, where a matching gate sealed the yard off from the street. It wasn’t locked. I let myself in. A familiar wide cobbled path led from the gate to the house, and then away around the side under a big oak tree. I followed it until I found myself in the scene of the crime. The rain washed the red of the brick and the green of the yard out so that there wasn’t much difference between what I saw now and what I’d seen in the photos. The only thing missing was the dead man, and I tipped my hat to the empty step nonetheless. My own inspection revealed nothing I hadn’t seen in the photos: there was nothing here to see. I cursed the rain for the millionth time.
Maybe I cursed a little too loud. The door creaked open, and a woman’s wary voice greeted me.
“I don’t mind the rain so much.” The side of her I could see in the doorway was pretty fine indeed. She looked evenly at me with wide, intelligent grey eyes framed by long lashes, her expression unreadable. There was the slightest hint of a shadow under her eyes, a little draw to her face. Her skin was pale and looked like it’d be smooth to the touch.
“Takes all kinds. Mrs. Grey, I presume? If you like it so much you’re welcome to join me out here.” I made a gesture I hoped was inviting and a little smile quirked her full lips.
“Ms. Grey,” she corrected me. And then, “Elizabeth. You might as well know, my husband is dead.” She said it like she knew I wouldn’t be surprised, and she didn’t waver. It seemed to me nobody missed James Grey too much. “And you are?”
“Archibald Ginn, but don’t call me Archie. Private Detective. I did know, and if it’s not too much trouble I’d like to talk to you about it.” I didn’t see much point in not being straight with her. She nodded and turned back into the house, letting the door fall open. I took the invitation and stepped inside.
“You wouldn’t be the first. The police have been all over the place for days poking at things out in the rain, always wanting to talk. There’s one outside right now.”
“Yeah, I met him. Nice guy. They’re all talk.”
She looked back over her shoulder and fixed me with a coy sort of look that might’ve dropped another man. “Most men are. Aren’t you, Mr. Ginn?” There was a game in her tone and I wanted to play it.
“Not me, ma’am. I’m a man of action.” She turned to lean casually against the mantle as I wrestled my way out of my drenched overcoat. I gave her my very best grin and she laughed. I thought I liked her laugh a whole lot.
Her other side matched. Elizabeth Grey was long and slender and she moved with a sort of quiet, tired grace. She was dressed simply, but effectively, in a pair of light slacks and a black buttoned top under a long, brown man’s cardigan. Her shiny brown hair was tied back in a messy sort of bun, but long strands fell in front of her face. There was a bookish charm about her. She regarded me coolly, hands in her pockets.
“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Ginn?” I told her she could and she turned to the bar in the corner of the room. Then she stopped and laughed a nervous little laugh. “Gin?”
I had to smile. “Can’t stand the stuff. Scotch?” She nodded and poured two glasses, and then took a seat in one of the room’s two chairs. She gestured to the other with her drink and I sat down. The room reflected an understated good taste. The furnishings were simple and comfortable: two overstuffed chairs and a third behind a small desk in the corner, a thick carpet on the floor, a few lamps casting a warm light through the room, an unlit fireplace, and books on the three walls that weren’t windows overlooking the yard, as well as on every other surface. One of the windows beside the door was open slightly, and I could hear the patter of rain outside. My eyes were immediately drawn to the large, ornate empty birdcage that sat atop the desk. I asked her about it.
“My husband was… a collector.” Her pause was weighted. “There are dozens more in his study. He brings them in from all over. China mostly.” She took a healthy drink of her scotch and then swirled the glass absently, her eyes distant.
“It’s a curious collection. This isn’t his study?” She shook her head. Hers then. I was starting to be impressed.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Ms. Grey. Where were you the night your husband was murdered?”
She sighed deeply and the cool playfulness drained out of her. “I’d gone out for a drive. I told you I’m partial to the rain. It helps me think. I returned home at half past ten. Nobody was around, and James’ body was on the step. I phoned the police.” Her tone was even, not defensive. It seemed like she was trying to keep our interview as short as possible. She looked tired.
“Can anybody confirm that?”
“I doubt it. I didn’t make any stops and I didn’t talk to anyone. Am I a suspect, Mr. Ginn?”
“Everybody is. No offense, kid.” Something told me she didn’t take any. “Tell me about James.”
“There isn’t much to say. I’d just started working for the newspaper when I met him. We were both young. He proposed, we got married. We didn’t see each other much—he was always into something. I’ve been busy with the paper, and my research.” She gestured vaguely at the books.
“Was he into anything that might’ve earned him enemies?”
“James was mixed up with some rough characters during the Prohibition years. And afterward. I never knew what he was up to because I didn’t want to.” I found it hard to believe that a woman like her hadn’t been curious. But I let it slide. She went on. “The one name I know is Joe Reilly. James mentioned him often. They were partners, for a while.” Now that was something. Reilly ran a few clubs, and he was nothing short of a gangster. I’d had a few run-ins with him in my line of work. But maybe that was one of the things she didn’t want to know.
“Did you and James get along?”
“As much as anybody, I suppose. James and I were very different people.”
“But you married him?”
Most of the dames I’ve known would’ve gotten mad at that, but instead she smiled a wry sort of smile, the kind there’s no humour in. There was a note of bitterness in her voice when she answered that made me wish I hadn’t asked. “A girl does what she’s got to. I’m sure you understand that, Mr. Ginn.” And I did. I nodded and finished my drink.
“Listen Ms. Grey. I’ve got another appointment to keep this afternoon. You phone me if you think of anything.” I handed her a card.
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Ginn.” She stood and walked me to the door. Her eyes were sad and I had the urge to comfort her.
“Chin up, kid.” I turned and walked back into the rain before I could say anything else. I was thinking I should’ve taken the General’s advice a little better. The girl had got to me.
It was really raining now. I figured I’d better pay a visit to Joe Reilly. One of his clubs wasn’t far, and a real lead might take my mind off her. Just to be sure, I thought I’d walk.
The bouncer, a real big sort of guy, recognized me at the door and let me in. I’d never had to bust Joe for anything and we weren’t on bad terms—better me than the police.
“Been raining for weeks, hasn’t it?” he drawled. And then, “Sometimes I forget whether the sun’s a blonde or a brunette. Joe’s not in today, Dick.” He used the general term.
Just my luck. I thanked him and left. Somewhere behind the thick dark clouds, the sun must be setting. The rain was falling straight down, and hard. I regretted walking. I made it only few blocks or so before I felt the tail. Maybe he’d been following me all day. It was hard to tell. He came out of an alley only about a block behind me and on the other side of the street, and he didn’t seem too worried about it. I thumbed my revolver out of its holster. He must’ve recognized the movement; a shot rang out, shockingly loud, and the brick a foot or so above my head exploded in a cloud of dust and stone that stung my face. I ducked and fired back, trying to find some kind of cover on the empty street. Not even a car to hide behind. The explosions of brick moved closer, fast. This guy was good.
The sound of sirens cut through the night suddenly, and close-by; the gunman disappeared back into his alley. I ran toward it hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Nothing but a couple of casings on the ground. I pocketed one and then got the hell out of there.
I took it out in a street light a few blocks away. .357 Magnum. A car wouldn’t have done me any good. I was worried now. Only government guys carried that kind of piece. And big-time gangsters. I drove back to the office in a foul mood.
It didn’t get any better when I got there. Her legs were waiting for me on the staircase. The rest of her was there too, but she wanted me to see those legs first. Darla Mills, Joe Reilly’s sometimes-girl. From what I heard she was a lot of guys’ sometimes-girl. She was small except where it counts, blonde, and crazy. I didn’t much like her. I wondered what the hell brought her hear, and I said as much.
“Heard you went looking for Joe today. And that you talked to the Grey woman first.” She said the last part with venom.
“Maybe I did. What’s it to you?”
“You know you’re cute, Archie. Why can’t we be friends?” She raised a hand, expecting me to help her up. A sparkle on her wrist caught my eye: a tiny golden birdcage on a charm bracelet.
“I can think of a few reasons. What’s that?” I pulled her to her feet and she stumbled on purpose into my chest. Pressed up against me, she fiddled with the charm so it played in the light.
“Present from a friend. I like presents.” She flashed me a pretty little smile and batted her lashes.
“And I bet you’ve got lots of friends.” She didn’t like that. She wound up to slap me and I caught her wrist and pushed her away.
“Goddamn you, Archie!” She cursed, and it was ugly. “Joe wants to know what you know. James Grey and him were friends and he’s concerned.” I told her I didn’t know nothing and she left in a rage. I watched her run through the rain until she was out of sight, and then I did what I always do. I went for a walk. Not even a government guy on my tail was going to keep me off the streets tonight. I had a lot on my mind and I needed to sort things out.
*****
It was early morning before I got back to the office, and still raining. The walk had cleared my head, but I was still missing something. Marlowe jumped in through the window and sat down in the middle of the floor next to the photos I’d forgotten to clear up. He set about loudly calling for my attention. He was soaking wet, his fur dark and plastered to his sides, and I bent down to move the photos out of the way.
And then it hit me.
James Grey had been shot to death outside his home with a small calibre gun, something like a .22. Low recoil, and easy to conceal. An assassin’s gun. Or a woman’s. A neighbour saw a woman leaving the scene, a brunette. Ms. Grey had brown hair, and she was seen returning to the house not long after the murder.
But in the rain, with her hair soaking wet, even a blonde like Darla Mills might look like a brunette. And that birdcage on her wrist—James Grey had a thing for birdcages, Elizabeth had told me so. I was betting that Darla was his sometimes-girl too, and that’s why he’d been thinking of leaving his wife. Maybe Darla had found out about it and confronted him, and maybe he’d played it a little too cool with her. She wouldn’t have liked that. She was one crazy dame.
That left the gunman. I picked up the phone and made a call to an informant of mine, an ex-government guy. He wasn’t in but he would be in a few hours. I left a message and then I forced myself to get some sleep. I woke up, for the second morning in a row, to the phone ringing. He told me what I needed to know.
James Grey, it seems, had been a rumrunner during the Prohibition years. That’s why he knew Joe Reilly. When Prohibition ended, instead of trying to make an honest buck, he’d turned to something else: opium. He smuggled it in in the bottoms of Chinese birdcages. Joe Reilly helped him sell it in his clubs. The government had gotten wind of it and sent in an agent. Apparently the agent hadn’t bothered to find out who I was before he shot at me; he must’ve seen me go from the Greys’ to Reilly’s and figured I was carrying on the business.
I made the appropriate calls, and I was on my way back to the Greys’ in minutes. It was still raining, but somehow I didn’t mind it so much. I thought maybe I could use some company on a walk.
A quiet, steady rain was falling, the kind that’ll soak a man to the skin and send a chill straight into his bones before he ever notices. It’s always raining in this damn city.
I flicked my cigarette into the gutter as I stepped out into the street, raising the collar of my coat against the drizzle. No use trying to keep it lit out here. It bounced once off the wet pavement, scattering sparks, and then extinguished itself in the gutter. The only really warm light disappeared with it.
Buildings loomed up on either side, almost featureless in the rain. A few shiny black hulks of cars here and there, but no people. Wide yellowish halos surrounded each of the streetlights, pushing back the gloom all the more for the black clouds pouring rain down on them. The part of my brain that still noticed these things registered that it might have been pretty. The rain was so quiet, the only sound you heard was water dripping off eaves and pouring down drainpipes. It was surreal and I liked it that way. Helps a man think. In a city like this, we take what we can get.
And I had a lot of thinking to do. The phone had rung earlier this morning than I’d have liked. I was sleeping at the office again, or I’d have missed it. Times are tough all over. I answered it with a growl.
“You sound ugly, Mr. Ginn.” The man’s voice was smooth in contrast, and smooth anyway. I guessed he was in his fifties, maybe older.
“I look even better. Who’s this?”
“Grey. General Robert Grey.” I suddenly felt a little more awake. The Greys were one of those old families. Those old, wealthy families. I’d never met them, but I’d sure heard about their money. The knowledge coloured my reply.
“How can I help you, General Grey?”
“It’s my son, James.” I didn’t know a thing about him, except that he was pretty, and kept a prettier thing by his side. Man, I was behind. I told him so.
“Times are tough.” I appreciated that, coming from him. “My son was into some pretty mean stuff, Mr. Ginn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but if it’s a counsellor you’re looking for I’m not your man.”
“He doesn’t need counselling. He’s dead. Shot to death outside his home, two nights ago.” The smooth voice didn’t waver. Whatever his reason for calling, it wasn’t grief.
“Now that’s something I can work with. You want me to find out who.”
“That’s how these things go, isn’t it?” He wasn’t really asking. A fan of the genre, I guessed. It was, and I didn’t mind him knowing it. He told me he’d have his man drop the crime scene photos by my office later in the day. He was in a hurry, and didn’t know anything besides. He told me that he’d suspected his son had been into something shady. The family had money, but the General was old-fashioned and thought his son had better work for what he wanted. Unfortunately, it never seemed little Jim Grey did much work, at least of the honest kind. He said the last time he saw James the boy seemed troubled, looked over his shoulder more than the General thought appropriate. He said he suspected James’ widow—and he warned me about her. “He didn’t think she knew it, but James was thinking of leaving her. She’s fine, make no mistake. But she’s one of the those thinking broads, you know the type. You watch her.”
A dead man and a thinking broad. I didn’t know what to make of it.
The photos turned up early in the afternoon. I was just waking up for the second time and I missed Grey’s man. Marlowe wound around my feet as I brought the manila envelope upstairs. His blue-grey fur was nearly black with wet; he’d taken to sitting on the fire escape, even in the rain. I got the feeling he was keeping an eye on the streets for me.
I laid the photos out on the floor. In them, a youngish man was sprawled face-down on a square of wet pavement, his clothes visibly soaked with rain. His right hand was extended outward; he’d been reaching for something when the bullet hit, a few inches back from his left ear. The rain had done me a favour with the wound; washed clean of blood I could see that it’d been a small-calibre bullet, probably fired at close range. That bothered me. It was a clean shot to the head, and that smacked of professional work, but something about it didn’t sit right. More photos showed me that the body had been found just outside the door to a large, stately sort of brick-walled house, but there was no other evidence left after the rain. A cobbled path led away from the house to a garage, and beyond that, to a gate set in the high hedges that surrounded the yard. There wasn’t much else to see, and the little page of notes with the photos didn’t tell me much. The wife had phoned in the murder just after 10:30; he’d been dead for about half an hour. There wasn’t much else to see. It had stormed that night. Chances are the thunder had covered up the sound of a gunshot. Hell, it was likely James Grey hadn’t ever heard the gunman come up behind him. And the driving rain would’ve obscured the scene from anyone who might have been watching. Perfect night for a murder.
My head was starting to hurt. Nothing I’d seen or heard so far held anything for me, so I decided it was time to pay Grey’s widow a visit. I found the address easy enough, and it was only a short miserable drive through the rain away. I arrived in time for tea. There was an officer’s car on the street and I spoke to the man inside briefly. He knew my name. Once we got the pleasantries out of the way, he told me about the witness. Accommodating guy.
“Saw a woman in a dark coat leavin’ the yard around 10. A brunette, he said. Couldn’t be sure of much with all that rain. Not long after, Mrs. Grey returned home. He figures she came back to the house on foot, shot her husband, and then walked back to her car and drove home—y’know, to throw anyone off that might’a seen her. I’m s’posed to keep an eye.” I thanked him and continued on.
The house was even more impressive from the front: clearly expensive, but not showy. The hedges I’d seen in the photos wrapped all the way around to the front of the house, where a matching gate sealed the yard off from the street. It wasn’t locked. I let myself in. A familiar wide cobbled path led from the gate to the house, and then away around the side under a big oak tree. I followed it until I found myself in the scene of the crime. The rain washed the red of the brick and the green of the yard out so that there wasn’t much difference between what I saw now and what I’d seen in the photos. The only thing missing was the dead man, and I tipped my hat to the empty step nonetheless. My own inspection revealed nothing I hadn’t seen in the photos: there was nothing here to see. I cursed the rain for the millionth time.
Maybe I cursed a little too loud. The door creaked open, and a woman’s wary voice greeted me.
“I don’t mind the rain so much.” The side of her I could see in the doorway was pretty fine indeed. She looked evenly at me with wide, intelligent grey eyes framed by long lashes, her expression unreadable. There was the slightest hint of a shadow under her eyes, a little draw to her face. Her skin was pale and looked like it’d be smooth to the touch.
“Takes all kinds. Mrs. Grey, I presume? If you like it so much you’re welcome to join me out here.” I made a gesture I hoped was inviting and a little smile quirked her full lips.
“Ms. Grey,” she corrected me. And then, “Elizabeth. You might as well know, my husband is dead.” She said it like she knew I wouldn’t be surprised, and she didn’t waver. It seemed to me nobody missed James Grey too much. “And you are?”
“Archibald Ginn, but don’t call me Archie. Private Detective. I did know, and if it’s not too much trouble I’d like to talk to you about it.” I didn’t see much point in not being straight with her. She nodded and turned back into the house, letting the door fall open. I took the invitation and stepped inside.
“You wouldn’t be the first. The police have been all over the place for days poking at things out in the rain, always wanting to talk. There’s one outside right now.”
“Yeah, I met him. Nice guy. They’re all talk.”
She looked back over her shoulder and fixed me with a coy sort of look that might’ve dropped another man. “Most men are. Aren’t you, Mr. Ginn?” There was a game in her tone and I wanted to play it.
“Not me, ma’am. I’m a man of action.” She turned to lean casually against the mantle as I wrestled my way out of my drenched overcoat. I gave her my very best grin and she laughed. I thought I liked her laugh a whole lot.
Her other side matched. Elizabeth Grey was long and slender and she moved with a sort of quiet, tired grace. She was dressed simply, but effectively, in a pair of light slacks and a black buttoned top under a long, brown man’s cardigan. Her shiny brown hair was tied back in a messy sort of bun, but long strands fell in front of her face. There was a bookish charm about her. She regarded me coolly, hands in her pockets.
“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Ginn?” I told her she could and she turned to the bar in the corner of the room. Then she stopped and laughed a nervous little laugh. “Gin?”
I had to smile. “Can’t stand the stuff. Scotch?” She nodded and poured two glasses, and then took a seat in one of the room’s two chairs. She gestured to the other with her drink and I sat down. The room reflected an understated good taste. The furnishings were simple and comfortable: two overstuffed chairs and a third behind a small desk in the corner, a thick carpet on the floor, a few lamps casting a warm light through the room, an unlit fireplace, and books on the three walls that weren’t windows overlooking the yard, as well as on every other surface. One of the windows beside the door was open slightly, and I could hear the patter of rain outside. My eyes were immediately drawn to the large, ornate empty birdcage that sat atop the desk. I asked her about it.
“My husband was… a collector.” Her pause was weighted. “There are dozens more in his study. He brings them in from all over. China mostly.” She took a healthy drink of her scotch and then swirled the glass absently, her eyes distant.
“It’s a curious collection. This isn’t his study?” She shook her head. Hers then. I was starting to be impressed.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Ms. Grey. Where were you the night your husband was murdered?”
She sighed deeply and the cool playfulness drained out of her. “I’d gone out for a drive. I told you I’m partial to the rain. It helps me think. I returned home at half past ten. Nobody was around, and James’ body was on the step. I phoned the police.” Her tone was even, not defensive. It seemed like she was trying to keep our interview as short as possible. She looked tired.
“Can anybody confirm that?”
“I doubt it. I didn’t make any stops and I didn’t talk to anyone. Am I a suspect, Mr. Ginn?”
“Everybody is. No offense, kid.” Something told me she didn’t take any. “Tell me about James.”
“There isn’t much to say. I’d just started working for the newspaper when I met him. We were both young. He proposed, we got married. We didn’t see each other much—he was always into something. I’ve been busy with the paper, and my research.” She gestured vaguely at the books.
“Was he into anything that might’ve earned him enemies?”
“James was mixed up with some rough characters during the Prohibition years. And afterward. I never knew what he was up to because I didn’t want to.” I found it hard to believe that a woman like her hadn’t been curious. But I let it slide. She went on. “The one name I know is Joe Reilly. James mentioned him often. They were partners, for a while.” Now that was something. Reilly ran a few clubs, and he was nothing short of a gangster. I’d had a few run-ins with him in my line of work. But maybe that was one of the things she didn’t want to know.
“Did you and James get along?”
“As much as anybody, I suppose. James and I were very different people.”
“But you married him?”
Most of the dames I’ve known would’ve gotten mad at that, but instead she smiled a wry sort of smile, the kind there’s no humour in. There was a note of bitterness in her voice when she answered that made me wish I hadn’t asked. “A girl does what she’s got to. I’m sure you understand that, Mr. Ginn.” And I did. I nodded and finished my drink.
“Listen Ms. Grey. I’ve got another appointment to keep this afternoon. You phone me if you think of anything.” I handed her a card.
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Ginn.” She stood and walked me to the door. Her eyes were sad and I had the urge to comfort her.
“Chin up, kid.” I turned and walked back into the rain before I could say anything else. I was thinking I should’ve taken the General’s advice a little better. The girl had got to me.
It was really raining now. I figured I’d better pay a visit to Joe Reilly. One of his clubs wasn’t far, and a real lead might take my mind off her. Just to be sure, I thought I’d walk.
The bouncer, a real big sort of guy, recognized me at the door and let me in. I’d never had to bust Joe for anything and we weren’t on bad terms—better me than the police.
“Been raining for weeks, hasn’t it?” he drawled. And then, “Sometimes I forget whether the sun’s a blonde or a brunette. Joe’s not in today, Dick.” He used the general term.
Just my luck. I thanked him and left. Somewhere behind the thick dark clouds, the sun must be setting. The rain was falling straight down, and hard. I regretted walking. I made it only few blocks or so before I felt the tail. Maybe he’d been following me all day. It was hard to tell. He came out of an alley only about a block behind me and on the other side of the street, and he didn’t seem too worried about it. I thumbed my revolver out of its holster. He must’ve recognized the movement; a shot rang out, shockingly loud, and the brick a foot or so above my head exploded in a cloud of dust and stone that stung my face. I ducked and fired back, trying to find some kind of cover on the empty street. Not even a car to hide behind. The explosions of brick moved closer, fast. This guy was good.
The sound of sirens cut through the night suddenly, and close-by; the gunman disappeared back into his alley. I ran toward it hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Nothing but a couple of casings on the ground. I pocketed one and then got the hell out of there.
I took it out in a street light a few blocks away. .357 Magnum. A car wouldn’t have done me any good. I was worried now. Only government guys carried that kind of piece. And big-time gangsters. I drove back to the office in a foul mood.
It didn’t get any better when I got there. Her legs were waiting for me on the staircase. The rest of her was there too, but she wanted me to see those legs first. Darla Mills, Joe Reilly’s sometimes-girl. From what I heard she was a lot of guys’ sometimes-girl. She was small except where it counts, blonde, and crazy. I didn’t much like her. I wondered what the hell brought her hear, and I said as much.
“Heard you went looking for Joe today. And that you talked to the Grey woman first.” She said the last part with venom.
“Maybe I did. What’s it to you?”
“You know you’re cute, Archie. Why can’t we be friends?” She raised a hand, expecting me to help her up. A sparkle on her wrist caught my eye: a tiny golden birdcage on a charm bracelet.
“I can think of a few reasons. What’s that?” I pulled her to her feet and she stumbled on purpose into my chest. Pressed up against me, she fiddled with the charm so it played in the light.
“Present from a friend. I like presents.” She flashed me a pretty little smile and batted her lashes.
“And I bet you’ve got lots of friends.” She didn’t like that. She wound up to slap me and I caught her wrist and pushed her away.
“Goddamn you, Archie!” She cursed, and it was ugly. “Joe wants to know what you know. James Grey and him were friends and he’s concerned.” I told her I didn’t know nothing and she left in a rage. I watched her run through the rain until she was out of sight, and then I did what I always do. I went for a walk. Not even a government guy on my tail was going to keep me off the streets tonight. I had a lot on my mind and I needed to sort things out.
*****
It was early morning before I got back to the office, and still raining. The walk had cleared my head, but I was still missing something. Marlowe jumped in through the window and sat down in the middle of the floor next to the photos I’d forgotten to clear up. He set about loudly calling for my attention. He was soaking wet, his fur dark and plastered to his sides, and I bent down to move the photos out of the way.
And then it hit me.
James Grey had been shot to death outside his home with a small calibre gun, something like a .22. Low recoil, and easy to conceal. An assassin’s gun. Or a woman’s. A neighbour saw a woman leaving the scene, a brunette. Ms. Grey had brown hair, and she was seen returning to the house not long after the murder.
But in the rain, with her hair soaking wet, even a blonde like Darla Mills might look like a brunette. And that birdcage on her wrist—James Grey had a thing for birdcages, Elizabeth had told me so. I was betting that Darla was his sometimes-girl too, and that’s why he’d been thinking of leaving his wife. Maybe Darla had found out about it and confronted him, and maybe he’d played it a little too cool with her. She wouldn’t have liked that. She was one crazy dame.
That left the gunman. I picked up the phone and made a call to an informant of mine, an ex-government guy. He wasn’t in but he would be in a few hours. I left a message and then I forced myself to get some sleep. I woke up, for the second morning in a row, to the phone ringing. He told me what I needed to know.
James Grey, it seems, had been a rumrunner during the Prohibition years. That’s why he knew Joe Reilly. When Prohibition ended, instead of trying to make an honest buck, he’d turned to something else: opium. He smuggled it in in the bottoms of Chinese birdcages. Joe Reilly helped him sell it in his clubs. The government had gotten wind of it and sent in an agent. Apparently the agent hadn’t bothered to find out who I was before he shot at me; he must’ve seen me go from the Greys’ to Reilly’s and figured I was carrying on the business.
I made the appropriate calls, and I was on my way back to the Greys’ in minutes. It was still raining, but somehow I didn’t mind it so much. I thought maybe I could use some company on a walk.
Monday, February 8, 2010
I have nothing of particular importance to say today, but I feel like I should get something else up here so that you (my theoretical readers) don't have to look at my angstiness anymore. =P
I've been writing lately, but nothing yet that I've wanted to post. So, in lieu of something really intellectual...
... here's a photo of me and my bookshelf! (Please excuse the Twilight books in the bottom shelf. I'm trying hard to get rid of them, but til then they make it so the rest of my books don't fall over.)
Friday, January 22, 2010
Fucked
I feel really terrible today. Not sick terrible, but just terrible. I feel like what little faith I may have had in people has fled screaming from me like I'm a burning building. It's something about taking public transit home on a Friday night and having literally every other person on my train car being a drunken asshole, or something. Or maybe it's that I work with a guy who argues eloquently with me, but whether or not I hold my own in the argument believes that he's right on basis of superior moral code (he's Christian) or life experience (he's from London and has twice been forced to relocate because of his drug addiction, which he's now kicked, and his criminal record, which he is still very much adding to; he's also a year younger than I am and does indeed far, far outstrip me in experience). He is also one and the same the boy who punched me in the face after our staff Christmas party (drunkenly, and perhaps mistakenly) when I tried to stop him fighting a far bigger man, and the one who argued that Haiti doesn't deserve help. There's something just exhausting about arguing with someone that way, putting something into it and having nothing but condescension returned. On that note, the other guy I worked with tonight casually asked me whether I'd slept with the entire English department at my university, fully believing that I had, and then subtly accused me of being racist when I mentioned that the drunken First Nations man on the train yesterday morning made me angry by living up to a cultural stereotype (I still fail to see why this makes me racist). It's just so frustrating to realize that you've worked yourself into a corner such that no one would believe you if you tried to tell them who you really are or what you really feel.
I feel hopeless. Completely and utterly. I like absolutely nothing about myself or where I'm at in my life at the moment.
I've spent so much money lately, on myself and other things. I bought issues 3 and 4 of Coilhouse after Christmas because it was a mad deal and I wanted something beautiful. I needed a hood for my jacket, and then I had a dream that I needed an oak pendant too. Allsaints had a massive sale and I figured I could afford to treat myself to the two least expensive things I could find. And then I donated to the Red Cross for Haiti (the Canadian Red Cross site is being sketchy, but I'm sure you can find it on your own), to the Izara Arts project (by purchasing a Valentine's gift for my boyfriend, although I know that it's completely useless to him and although I don't believe in Valentine's Day), and to Ariel Grimm's save-her-cat fund (meanwhile Neil Gaiman's beautiful kitty Zoe is dying and I basically can't stop crying about it).
I don't have the money for any of these. I really, really don't. I also don't have money for pomegranates and real cranberry juice and fancy vegan cereal, but I buy these things too. What I have money for is rent, and that just barely, even with two jobs. And it isn't that I don't make enough for what I need, it's that I don't make enough to be a fucking stupid spendthrift, which is what I'm turning out to be regardless of how I rationalize it to myself.
I'm not sure why this has come to money, other than that one of the packages came today, and today I sent money to Ariel and read Neil's post.
I feel, today, like everything is fucked to death and I almost don't care. I feel like I can't contain this much contempt, at least before I start throwing up acid again. I mean that literally, and not as in writing or speaking vehemently. Who needs smoking when you can let the bitterness rot you from the inside? My lungs are clean but there's tar in my heart.
I feel like I can't say anything more to explain or validate how I feel right now, and so, I'm going to go to bed (and put my oak pendant under my pillow instead of my amethyst, because I need protection tonight more than I need dreams) and hope that this has gone away by morning.
In other news, girls that went to my high school have been dying lately. Lots. It makes me nervous. Blessed be, all of you.
I feel hopeless. Completely and utterly. I like absolutely nothing about myself or where I'm at in my life at the moment.
I've spent so much money lately, on myself and other things. I bought issues 3 and 4 of Coilhouse after Christmas because it was a mad deal and I wanted something beautiful. I needed a hood for my jacket, and then I had a dream that I needed an oak pendant too. Allsaints had a massive sale and I figured I could afford to treat myself to the two least expensive things I could find. And then I donated to the Red Cross for Haiti (the Canadian Red Cross site is being sketchy, but I'm sure you can find it on your own), to the Izara Arts project (by purchasing a Valentine's gift for my boyfriend, although I know that it's completely useless to him and although I don't believe in Valentine's Day), and to Ariel Grimm's save-her-cat fund (meanwhile Neil Gaiman's beautiful kitty Zoe is dying and I basically can't stop crying about it).
I don't have the money for any of these. I really, really don't. I also don't have money for pomegranates and real cranberry juice and fancy vegan cereal, but I buy these things too. What I have money for is rent, and that just barely, even with two jobs. And it isn't that I don't make enough for what I need, it's that I don't make enough to be a fucking stupid spendthrift, which is what I'm turning out to be regardless of how I rationalize it to myself.
I'm not sure why this has come to money, other than that one of the packages came today, and today I sent money to Ariel and read Neil's post.
I feel, today, like everything is fucked to death and I almost don't care. I feel like I can't contain this much contempt, at least before I start throwing up acid again. I mean that literally, and not as in writing or speaking vehemently. Who needs smoking when you can let the bitterness rot you from the inside? My lungs are clean but there's tar in my heart.
I feel like I can't say anything more to explain or validate how I feel right now, and so, I'm going to go to bed (and put my oak pendant under my pillow instead of my amethyst, because I need protection tonight more than I need dreams) and hope that this has gone away by morning.
In other news, girls that went to my high school have been dying lately. Lots. It makes me nervous. Blessed be, all of you.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Kiss Me Deadly
Fleur from DiaryofaVintageGirl.com is giving away a set of Kiss Me Deadly kickers, and oh, do I ever want to win them. Kiss Me Deadly = amazing! I'll admit, I dream about vintage shapewear. Oh yes. Check out the contest here.
<3
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Lindsay's Private Party
Lindsay's Private Party from Kennedy Byers-O'Brien on Vimeo.
Holy crow, this is beautiful. My heart is racing.
Friday, December 18, 2009
bad seeds
I'm listening to Mojo magazine's "Bad Seeds- Nick Cave: Roots and Collaborations" album right now. It's really incredible.
This song in particular I am in love with:
Karen Dalton- "Katie Cruel"
When I first came to town
they called me the roving jewel
now they've changed their tune
call me Katie Cruel
Through the woods I'm going
through the boggy mires
straight way down the road
til I come to my heart's desire
If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am not
here I am where I must be, oh
where I would be I cannot
When I first came to town
they bought me drinks aplenty
now they've changed their tune
hand me the bottles empty
If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am not
here I am where I must be
where would be I cannot
There's a video of it here, which is terrible but at least you can hear the song.
This song in particular I am in love with:
Karen Dalton- "Katie Cruel"
When I first came to town
they called me the roving jewel
now they've changed their tune
call me Katie Cruel
Through the woods I'm going
through the boggy mires
straight way down the road
til I come to my heart's desire
If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am not
here I am where I must be, oh
where I would be I cannot
When I first came to town
they bought me drinks aplenty
now they've changed their tune
hand me the bottles empty
If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am not
here I am where I must be
where would be I cannot
There's a video of it here, which is terrible but at least you can hear the song.
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